


The Great White Plague

by SocialDeception



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Developing Relationship, Infidelity, M/M, Major Illness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialDeception/pseuds/SocialDeception
Summary: It started with a cough.It wasn’t that unusual, it was autumn, and a lot of Waylon’s friends and co-workers were out sick with colds. There was no reason to suspect this would be any different. After all, things like that didn’t happen. Not to people like the Park’s. Not to people with well-manicured lawns and proper, furnished homes. These things happened to other people.Except, deep down, he knew that it had happened to them as well.
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
Comments: 25
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**Part I - Waylon**

**September 1941**

It started with a cough.

It wasn’t that unusual, it was autumn, after all. A lot of Waylon’s friends and co-workers were out sick with colds, and there was no reason to suspect this would be any different. His children were young, and God knew they brought enough illness into the house.

Still, in the back of Waylon’s mind, he knew that it had to be something worse. Something really, really, bad. It didn’t feel like the common cold.

He tried to push it to the back of his mind, and carried on as normal. Until the cough was accompanied by flecks of blood, and he woke up drenched in sweat every morning.

Things like this didn’t happen. Not to people like the Park’s. Not to people with well-manicured lawns and proper, furnished homes. These things happened to other people.

That’s what he kept telling himself.

Except, deep down, he knew that it had happened to them as well.


	2. Chapter 2

“I regret to have to inform you that you have tuberculosis, Mr. Park.”

It wasn’t such a big shock. Waylon had kind of known which way it was gonna go when the doctor ordered X-rays and bedrest with a solemn look on his face. The frequent, never-ending coughs and low-grade fever just settled the deal. It didn’t look like the thought had even occurred to Lisa because she immediately gasped and started sobbing breathlessly into her handkerchief.

Waylon awkwardly patted her shoulder, refraining from hugging her, already trying to distance himself. The last thing he wanted was to infect her or, God forbid, Alfie and Michael. He’d had to ask the doctor about the toddler. Alfie was just two years old.

The doctor cleared his throat and interrupted Waylon’s thoughts, before he continued. “With a diagnosis like pulmonary tuberculosis, we recommend six to nine months at a sanitarium, with regular X-rays to see how it progresses and responds to treatment.” The doctor shot Lisa a brief look, before refocusing on Waylon. “I trust I don’t have to tell you the severity of the diagnosis.”

“You don’t,” Waylon said stiffly, and instead of grasping Lisa’s hand like he normally would, he wrung the bottom of his coat jacket. “I understand.”

“The- How is the prognosis?” Lisa whispered, and when Waylon glanced over at her, her face had turned ashen. Somehow she looked ten years older in the ten minutes they’d been in the office. “We have two young boys- I-” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes.

“Well, Mrs. Park, I’m sure it is not necessary for me to have to educate you on the dangers of tuberculosis, and while I cannot say it is fully curable, it may be healed. What Mr. Park need is rest and isolation.” He shot her another look when she started to protest. “As a rule-” he started, shuffling the papers on his desk. “-Close and prolonged contact is needed to spread the disease, so we want to limit that as much as possible.”

“You mentioned a sanitarium.” Waylon tried to take the no-nonsense approach, and be practical. He already knew that in the interests of public health, refusal to go was not an option. He did, however, refuse to let himself grow scared.

“Mount Massive, yes. In a way you are lucky, Mr. Park, seeing as Colorado has an excellent climate for healing, and with today's strides in modern medicine…” The doctor trailed off. “There’s a tuberculosis medicinal officer waiting for you downstairs, and I suggest you have your wife pack a suitcase for you. The sooner we get started, the sooner we have you up and running again.”  
  


* * *

  
Things happened very quickly after that, and soon Waylon found himself on his way to Mount Massive Sanitarium.

Compared to the lively ruckus at the family breakfast before the doctor appointment, the ride up the mountain was a lonely and quiet one. The doctor had faith that the mountain climate would work wonders, not only on Waylon’s lungs, but on his mind as well, but Waylon was certain the isolation would drive him mad.

Lisa had packed a suitcase for him, and he was stroking the worn leather absentmindedly. The taxi cab had the glass divider firmly set in place, and all the driver had offered him was a slanted, apologetic smile before they started on their travel.

He’d waved goodbye to his wife and children, his smile fading as the city disappeared behind him, and for the past half-hour there hadn’t been anything but trees. At least the taxi cab had a radio, even if the songs seemed to be stuck in a sentimental loop. It only accentuated the wet, grey day, making it even more miserable.

It didn’t help that the handkerchief Lisa had ironed and folded up for him was now covered in rust colored specs, and his chest felt sore and hollowed out.

He didn’t know much about Mount Massive, and the tuberculosis medicinal officer hadn’t told him much, other than it offered what most other mountain sanatoriums did: fresh air, plenty of rest and plenty of food. At least that was something. Not that he had much of an appetite. His once healthy weight had dropped to the point where his ribs had started showing, and his hip bones jutted painfully against his skin. The thought of big meals and milk had his stomach churning.

The thought disappeared as the driver took a turn and suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a fence loomed up from the forest.

Waylon had to wonder if it was another tactic to keep the infection from spreading, because the wall was tall and topped with iron spikes. He couldn’t be sure if it was to keep people out, or keep people in. It didn’t bode well, in any case.

Mount Massive was one of those ugly, Victorian buildings that seemed to crumble at the foundation even at the best of times. It rose against the white tipped mountains and the green forest like a crumbling heap of red brick, culminating in two identical towers with copper that had turned green with time.

Even if Waylon didn’t appreciate the architecture - he much preferred a modern style with sleek lines and windowed surfaces - he could appreciate the forest and mountains surrounding it. He hoped he’d be well enough to explore the gardens eventually.

The taxi cab drove in through wrought iron gates, and the driver did his best to drive as close to the doors as humanly possible. Waylon was just staring at the building, mesmerized by something he couldn’t quite articulate. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this was to be his new home for the un-foreseeable future.

He still had his suitcase clutched in his hands, and he exited the car on wobbly legs. The building wasn’t quite as bad up close. The entrance had wide archways and ivy that clung to the aging bricks, and the windows were large and clean, reflecting the setting sun.

“Mr. Park.”

Waylon turned to find a young nurse waiting for him near one of the arches with a wheelchair. The coolness of the wind had given her cheeks a rosy tint, and compared with Waylon she seemed the very epitome of health and youth.

“Uh, I- Hello,” Waylon stammered, and clutched his suitcase harder when she moved to take it. No way was he letting a young lady take his things, like he was an infirm old man. Even if he had tuberculosis, he still had his pride. The thought had his lips tug in a small smile.

“Right this way, Mr. Park,” she smiled and touched his elbow gently, motioning for the wheelchair. “I’m Nurse Garland, and I’ll be your primary nurse during your stay. Welcome to Mount Massive.”

“Thank you,” Waylon mumbled. “Sorry I’m here so late, the doctor-”

“No, no, don’t apologize. Follow me and we’ll get you signed in and ready for your room.” She gestured for the wheelchair again.

Waylon glared at it. “Is that really necessary? I’m perfectly able to-”

“I’m afraid we insist, Mr. Park. It’s of utmost importance that your lungs have a chance to rest.”

Waylon grumbled a bit, but reluctantly climbed into the wheelchair and rested his suitcase on his lap. Nurse Garland dutifully stepped up behind it and started driving Waylon in through the double doors.

The richly decorated double doors lead into a spacious vestibule, with a large desk dominating the room. The man behind it didn’t quite have nurse Garland’s rosy glow, but he smiled friendly enough as Waylon came closer.

“Good evening, Mr. Park,” he said. “Welcome to Mount Massive. I’m Jack Campbell.”

At least pleasantries were so deeply ingrained in Waylon’s being, that he was on total autopilot when he answered, and Mr. Campbell continued.

“Ms. Garland will take you to Dr. Wernicke to get signed in. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Honestly, Waylon would have snorted, if he wasn’t so polite. The whole thing seemed more like some upscale hotel than a sanatorium. Instead he mumbled something he hoped was appropriate and let nurse Garland drive him forward.

The whole place seemed desolate, Waylon thought, when she drove him down to the end of one hallway, only to make a turn and drive down another. There was no one in the hallway, the various day rooms were empty, and he couldn’t hear anything sans the creaking wheels and the gentle rapping of Nurse Garland’s shoes.

She didn’t initiate conversation, to which Waylon was grateful. Despite the drive being less than three hours long, he still found himself exhausted. He supposed he’d get plenty of rest here, if the treatment plan was anything like his physician had said.

In keeping with the style of the exterior, the interior was dark and old-fashioned, with alternating dark paneling and brick walls. At least the checkerboard flooring reminded him of his own kitchen back in Denver, and he got lost in a daydream of lazy Sunday breakfast. Lisa made the best pancakes he’d ever tasted in his life, and she’d tie her hair up in a messy bun while doing so. He loved watching her cook. She wasn’t aware of this secret pleasure of his, but he loved watching her purse her lips while reading her cookbooks, humming along with the radio while kneading and mixing, or finally those small lines that would form around her eyes when she smiled and served them her creations.

Waylon realized he missed her already, and he rubbed a hand across his chest with a grimace. If he felt this way now, on day one, he didn’t want to think how he’d feel two months in.

“Here we are,” Nurse Garland finally said, interrupting his melancholy, and knocked on a stately set of double doors, before opening them wide enough for her to maneuver the wheelchair through.

Dr. Wernicke’s office was covered floor to ceiling in heavy oak bookcases, filled with what looked like volume upon volume of medical books, while the good doctor himself was situated behind an equally impressive desk.

The man himself wasn’t as impressive. In fact Waylon was surprised he was allowed anywhere near infectious diseases. He was frail in a way that suggested a life full of hardship, yet his eyes were steely as he regarded Waylon.

“Welcome to Mount Massive Sanitarium,” he said, and there was nothing frail about his voice.

Nurse Garland wheeled him up to the desk and Dr. Wernicke pushed a collection of papers across his desk for Waylon to look at.

The entry application appeared standard enough, and Waylon quickly read through it, before doing a double take at some lines near the bottom.

“You’re asking for permission to perform an autopsy,” Waylon said sharply.

“Formalities, Mr. Park,” Dr. Wernicke said coolly, waving his hand dismissively. “The medical community is still trying to find a way to completely eradicate this-” He paused, as if he couldn’t find a word strong enough to encompass what he meant. “Any insight we gain is invaluable.”

Waylon felt like he was signing his own death warrant, but he did it anyway. He already knew there was a real possibility that he might die in this crumbling old building, but this felt like more than just acknowledging the possibility of death. If anything it felt foreboding in a manner he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

“Then there’s the matter of payment.”

Waylon fumbled for his jacket, pulling out his wallet. His father-in-law had graciously offered to pay for the stay, something Waylon had to admit he was more than happy about. Last thing he wanted was to put Lisa and the kids in debt over this. He pulled out the check and slid it across the desk.

“This payment will cover your time in the sanatorium, and your return ticket home.” Dr. Wernicke cleared his throat and averted his gaze, as if the subject was uncomfortable.

“I think they will come get me personally when I’m healed,” Waylon said.

“Oh, Mr. Park.” It was the first time Dr. Wernicke seemed like a real human being, and he gave Waylon a pitying look. “What I mean is that it’s payment for someone to transport your coffin back home, if things get dire.”

Oh.

Waylon’s mind went blank for a moment. He hadn’t even thought of that.

“Furthermore, I want to tell you that we’re acknowledging the possibility of death at this very moment, but I’d like to discourage you from discussing your illness, symptoms or anything of the like with other patients,” Dr. Wernicke leaned back and studied Waylon’s face. “We have strict rules and routines, and I expect you will follow them if you want any possibility of returning home healthy.”

“I understand.” It sounded more like a threat, but Waylon still complied.

“Death is not to be discussed under any circumstance,” Dr. Wernicke continued. “We focus on fresh air and plenty of rest as a means of healing, but it all starts with a positive frame of mind.”

“I understand,” Waylon repeated, and Dr. Wernicke shot him a calculated glance.

“I’ll leave the rest of the orientation to Nurse Garland. I trust you have a pleasant stay and I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you,” Waylon said stiffly, and bowed his head when Nurse Garland started turning the wheelchair around.

“Remember, Mr. Park,” Dr. Wernicke called after them. “If you expect to get well, you must work for it!”

The door closed behind them before Waylon could think of a clever retort.  
  


* * *

  
Waylon breathed a sigh of relief when they reached his room.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe the same, claustrophobic decor of the main halls, or a room with rows upon rows of sick people.

Instead the rooms were big and airy, with large windows and scrubbed, white walls. One half of the room was occupied by a sleeping patient - a young man in his early twenties, if Waylon had to guess - the other made ready for him.

It looked more like a modern, personal bedroom than a hospital room, with a wide single bed and a corner desk. It even had an armchair set to the side of the desk, no doubt for visitors.

Nurse Garland crossed the floor and pulled a curtain that divided the two parts of the room before speaking again.

“We have a strict schedule here at Mount Massive, I suggest you get acquainted with it.” At that she handled Waylon a laminated piece of paper. “But of course, if you have any questions, then don’t hesitate to come speak with me.” She smiled and patted Waylon’s hand. “You’ve had a long day, Mr. Park. I suggest you turn in for the night, and we’ll start fresh tomorrow.”

Waylon nodded and made to stand, but Nurse Garland stopped him.

“Let me wheel you over, Mr. Park.”

“Please,” Waylon smiled. “Call me Waylon. You’re making me feel old.”

“Waylon.” Nurse Garland smiled back at him and once they were by the bed, she helped him sit down.

“The bathroom is down the hall, communal, I’m afraid.” Her smile turned apologetic. “But I’ll leave a wash basin and a bedpan for tonight.”

Waylon tried to hide his horrified expression, and gave her a weak nod instead. One thing was for sure, he’d rather crawl over to the bathrooms in his own bloody mucus, than use the bathroom laying down in bed.

“You have a pleasant night, Mr. Pa- Waylon, and I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Thank you and goodnight,” Waylon murmured, and watched her leave and shut the door softly behind her.

With a deep sigh he sank back on the bed. At least it was comfortable. Not too soft and not too firm. Comfortable. Like the rest of his stay, if not for the lingering smell of hospital and the possibility of death. Waylon sighed again.

He suspected sleep would not come easy tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

Soft rays of sunshine played over his skin, in that tranquil moment between dreams and reality.

It was one of those quiet Sunday mornings, and he knew Alfie and Michael would start calling for them at any minute, but for now he was just gonna bask in the sun like a cat. He wondered what he would do with his precious time off work. Maybe take the boys to the park, let Lisa have a few hours to herself.

He was just about to roll over and put his arm around her, when he jolted awake at the sound of a bell, and shot upright.

The room seemed more sterile and hospital-like in the early morning sun, but not as unwelcoming as he had feared. The dividing curtain was pulled, and the young man from last night peered curiously at Waylon.

“Take some getting used to, huh?” the man said with a friendly grimace.

“I’d say.” Waylon started getting out of bed until he remembered nurse Garland’s words on wheelchairs and letting his lungs rest. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m Waylon Park, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Billy Hope.” Billy smiled. “The nurses keep telling me my name is both a good omen and a good idea.”

“Sounds like something they’d say, yeah,” Waylon said, before scooting closer. “What’s it like here?”

“Tedious. Probably not what you want to hear, but it’s all routines, routines, routines.” Billy combed his fingers through his hair. “And rules, let’s not forget about the rules.”

“Not allowed to discuss symptoms, right?”

“Oh yeah, no. Definitely not. Death doesn’t exist here, despite being everywhere around us.” Billy’s eyes trailed off towards the big windows, at the landscape outside, and they both fell silent.

“I’m sorry.” Waylon said after a while, unsure what else to say.

“No, it’s fine. Only natural that you’re curious about this place. The people are nice and the food is good.” Billy shrugged. “We exist in a bubble, but perhaps that’s for the best.”

They stayed in another, more comfortable, silence for a moment, until Waylon remembered the laminated schedule nurse Garland had given him, and he pulled it out to study it.

He was starting to see what Billy meant. Each day was divided into equal parts food and relaxation and, if you were lucky enough to be allowed, exercise. Waylon squinted at it.

“Bet you’re looking forward to months of that, huh?” Billy said, and this time his face was split in a genuine smile.

“Oh yes,” Waylon joked. “I’ve always longed to-” That was how far he got before there was a knock on the door, and two nurses entered the room.

“Good morning!” A tall, blonde nurse said with a bright smile and pushed a tray into the room. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Oh, err…” Waylon scratched his head. “We’re not eating in a dining hall?”

“I’m afraid you’re eating in bed today, Mr. Park. You have a doctor’s appointment after breakfast to determine if you should be on bedrest or allowed free range of the sanitarium.” The tall nurse seemed like a no-nonsense kind of girl, so Waylon found it best not to disagree.

Instead he allowed her to fluff up his pillow, prop him up against it and put a large serving tray on his nightstand. With practiced ease she rolled it over, and swung the top part across Waylon’s lap.

“I’ll talk to you later, Waylon.” Billy was being helped into a wheelchair and escorted out of the room, while Waylon was left staring at his breakfast.

It wasn’t much; just two slices of toast and a large pat of butter left on a small platter and a bowl of marmalade, but Waylon found he was starving. The cutlery was placed in a napkin next to two enamel mugs, one filled with tea and the other with milk, and when he unrolled it he had to contain his laughter. The word ‘stolen’ was printed onto the metal right under what he guessed was his patient number. If anything, it made him want to steal it and bring it back home with him. He’d love to see Lisa’s face at breakfast when she realized she was using stolen silverware. With a chuckle Waylon spread butter on his toast and started eating.  
  


* * *

  
Almost as soon as he was done, nurse Garland came to the door with another wheelchair, smiling apologetically as she entered the room.

“Good morning, Waylon. Time for your evaluation with Dr. Trager.”

Nervous, Waylon simply mumbled his greeting, before he got seated in the wheelchair. He hoped the breakfast had given him the strength the sanitarium was boasting, since he was afraid of being told he’d have to stay in bed for six months.

“Don’t you worry, Waylon,” nurse Garland said, patting his shoulder in a depressingly motherly manner, before wheeling him out into the hallway. “I’m sure he’ll give you the okay.”

Waylon didn’t know what to say, he was too worried that he wouldn’t be given the all clear at all. Being confined to a bed seemed like a nightmare, and he realized he’d do a lot to avoid that. So he didn’t fuss as she took him down the long, empty hallways, neither of them saying a word.

At least the wing where most of the patients slept wasn’t far away from the various offices, and it didn’t take long before nurse Garland knocked on another pair of stately looking double doors. She didn’t wait for a reply before wheeling Waylon in.  
  


* * *

  
Dr. Trager was a tall, bird-like man who was unlike most doctors Waylon had come across, referring to him with a familiarity Waylon wasn’t sure he was comfortable with.

He’d spent the first half hour prodding Waylon with endless curiosity; Not just with a varied amount of tools, but with an endless array of questions as well, starting almost with Waylon’s birth. How that was in any way relevant to Waylon’s current predicament, he wasn’t sure, but he humored the doctor regardless.

After the seemingly never ending rounds of questions, he soon moved on to more relevant issues, taking Waylon’s blood pressure and listening to his lungs.

“Weight?” Dr. Trager asked a young nurse, who adjusted the dials on the scale in front of Waylon until they stabilized.

“115 pounds,” she replied, and Waylon winced. He might never have been a heavy-set man, but he’d at least been at a healthier weight a few months ago.

Dr. Trager hummed and scribbled something into his notebook.

“When will I be allowed out?” Waylon asked as the nurse helped him back into his wheelchair, and Dr. Trager glanced at him over his glasses.

“I’ll put you on OTW for the time being, and we’ll see how you fare on that,” he said, going back to his notebook.

“OTW?” Waylon asked, glancing first at the doctor, then to the nurse.

“‘Out to wash’,” the nurse explained patiently. “It means you’re allowed out of your room and some gentle exercise.”

Waylon thought about endless months of ‘gentle exercise’, whatever that meant. “What are my other options?”

“Well,” the nurse said, giving him a curious glance. “If you’re on ‘Basins’, that means you wash and eat in your own room.”

Waylon paled.

“On ‘Absolute’ you stay in bed.”

“Nothing better than ‘Out to wash’?” Waylon asked, and Trager shot him a grin over his shoulder.

“Could put you on ‘Whisper’,” he chuckled. “You ask a lot of questions, buddy.”

“Sorry.” Waylon flushed and looked down on his folded hands.

“No, I appreciate that,” Trager said. “A positive outlook is key.”

“Yeah,” Waylon mumbled. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

Trager turned and took his glasses off, peering at Waylon with strange, watery eyes, but he didn’t speak. Then he smiled an equally watery smile, and winked. “If that’s what people tell you, then it gotta be true, right, buddy?”

“Right,” Waylon echoed weakly.  
  


* * *

  
The sanitarium had a wide collection of modern tubular steel wheelchairs that could both be folded and self-propelled. That was a relief, at least. Perhaps he’d be permitted free range of the grounds by himself, eventually.

Right now he was in the mercy of Nurse Garland again, who happily chatted about Mount Massive’s mandatory arts and crafts classes. Waylon wasn’t particularly looking forward to beading and knitting, but he supposed anything was better than being confined to a bed.

Honestly, ever since learning that was a very real possibility, he’d thought of little else.

She rolled him through more of the endless hallways, through various day rooms, wide porches with rows upon rows of patients in wheelchairs. Some were even wide enough to accommodate people in wheeled hospital beds.

“Fresh air is good for the lungs,” Nurse Garland explained when she caught him looking. “It promotes healing.”

“So I’ve heard,” Waylon muttered, already tired of their endless optimism.

It wasn’t that he was a pessimist, in truth he was anything but, but the outright denial of the seriousness of the condition bothered him greatly. It felt like there was a giant spider on the wall, but no one addressed or acknowledged it. It made Waylon uneasy.

“I’ll take you to lunch,” nurse Garland said cheerfully. “Since you’ve been given the clear, you can eat in the dining hall.”

Waylon perked up a little at the thought. Other than Hope, he hadn’t talked to another patient, and he realized he missed talking to people. Not that the nurses and doctors weren’t people, per say, but he longed to talk to someone in his situation. Selfish, perhaps, but he hated feeling so alone.

It didn’t take long before she wheeled him into a large room. The dining hall was a grand affair, overlooking nicely manicured lawns and flower beds. It had a veranda, like the other ones Waylon had seen, and he guessed it stretched the entirety of the back portion of the building. It had rows upon rows of narrow long-tables lined with comfortable looking chairs. At the back of the room was a raised portion that Waylon guessed was a stage of sort.

“Lunch is nearly over,” Nurse Garland said. “That’s why there’s so few here right now, but there’s quite the gathering here usually.” She patted Waylon’s shoulder. “I’ll introduce you.”

Waylon felt more and more like a child on the first day of school, being dependent on someone else to show him how to socialize. He couldn’t really say he minded, though.

She wheeled him over to a table with three other patients.

“Good morning, gentlemen. This is Mr. Waylon Park,” she said brightly, wheeling him so close to the table that he was almost touching it with his chest. “And this is Mr. Miles Upshur,” she pointed to a man with messy dark hair and an infectious smile. “Mr. Chris Walker.” Chris didn’t smile, but gave Waylon a once-over with narrowed eyes before giving a curt nod. “And finally, Mr. Martin Archimbaud.”

“A pleasure,” Martin said, smiling warmly at Waylon. He was an older gentleman with a twinkle in his kind eyes, and Waylon was thankful yet again for the introduction.

“What are ya in here for, Waylon?” Miles said, laughing immediately at his own joke, before calling out for one of the ladies working there. “Hey, Liz! Fetch his man a plate of food before he starves to death.” He turned and looked over Waylon’s skinny wrists and chest. “Better make it quick.”

The woman named Liz laughed and shook her head, but went to the back to get Waylon a tray of food regardless.

Waylon chuckled as well, and scratched his neck.

“Where you from?” Miles leaned forward, eyes sparkling. If Waylon didn’t know any better, he’d claim this man wasn’t sick at all, in fact, he seemed insultingly healthy.

“Denver,” Waylon replied, and Miles whistled.

“City man, eh?”

“I hear the railroad is quite the sight,” Martin said, sighing.

Waylon felt a bang of pride for his city, and smiled. He was about to say something about it when Liz placed a tray of food in front of him. It contained another jug of milk - he could see a layer of fat on the surface - and a plate of thick hearty bread, vegetables and a patty of meat.

“We grow the vegetables here,” Miles said, nodding towards the plate. “‘S pretty good.”

Martin used the crust of his bread to wipe out the last bits of steak sauce off his plate. “It’s about the only good thing I can say about consumption,” he said. “During the depression I didn’t think I’d eat this well ever again.”

Now, Waylon had been lucky. He had a good job, one he had been lucky enough to keep through all the hardships, but it was acquired and kept through Lisa’s father. Not that Waylon had so much pride that he didn’t appreciate the offer of employment, but sometimes he felt a stab of something unwelcome at the thought of it. He hadn’t solely provided for his family during those times, it was just as much, if not more, the help of his father in law and his fancy factory. Waylon would probably not even have been able to afford the sanatorium if not for his father in law’s generosity.

He felt the first prickings of self-pity in the back of his throat, which he tried to silence by showing bread and meat into his mouth.

He barely chewed it, and it stung on the way down, which at least kept his mind preoccupied. Miles was watching him, Waylon realized, with two creases between his eyebrows.

“You okay there?” he asked, a lot softer than he had before, and Waylon nodded.

“Just a lot to take in,” Waylon said after wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Just a few days ago I was at home with my wife and kids, and now-” He looked around the dining hall and waved his hand for emphasis.

“You’ll get used to it,” Miles said. “Soon you’ll look forward to the meals and the quiet hour out on the pavilions.”

Waylon snorted and shook his head, but smiled despite himself. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re probably right.”

“Well, if there’s anything you should learn, son, it’s that our Miles is always right,” Martin said with a fond smile, and he patted Miles’ shoulder.

This time it was Chris’ time to snort, but he had a smile on his face when Waylon looked up at him.

“Pretty much true,” Miles winked. “And right now my instincts are telling me to take you out to the gardens for a quick look-see, before you start climbing on the walls.”

This time Waylon actually laughed out loud, and although his chest stung from the effort, it felt surprisingly good.

“Deal,” he said with a grin.  
  


* * *

  
Other than his knack for always being right, Miles had a real knack with the nurses as well.

It took him just a few winks and crooked smiles, and suddenly they were both in their very own self-propelled wheelchairs, on their way outside.

Mount Massive was clean and well ventilated, but Waylon still breathed in deep when outside, like he had been stuck inside a bunker of sorts, deprived of oxygen.

The gardens were still green, lush in all its late autumn glory, but the very tips of the leaves had started turning orange. Waylon took it all in. The air was pungent with the smell of what Waylon could only describe as autumn, but cool and fresh like the winters back home. Honestly, he could see how this air would promote healing.

The sanitarium and its side buildings rose against the sky. All his previous, hateful thoughts of the red brick was gone, replaced with awe. From the back of the building, there was nothing but large pavilions and vast gardens, surrounded by farmland and forests.

“That’s the auditorium,” Miles started, startling Waylon out of his reverie, pointing out a building. Then he turned and pointed to the opposite side. “There’s the medical staff building and over there is the administration.” Then he turned, jerking his head in the direction of the forest. “And there’s the chapel.”

Waylon turned in the direction he was turning and froze.

It wasn’t much as far as chapels went. It wasn’t richly decorated or placed ceremoniously on a hill overlooking the rest. No, it was a simple, stone building, carefully embraced by trees until it nearly bled in, hidden from prying eyes.

In front of it, perfectly silhouetted against the door, was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit.

“Is that the priest?” Waylon asked. He’d never been particularly religious, but ever since his diagnosis, he’d gotten the sudden urge to speak to one. Only natural, he supposed, when one’s life was at stake.

“Nah, that’s Gluskin.” Miles’ voice was flat, and was already turned around when Waylon looked back at him for an explanation.

“Gluskin?”

“Eddie Gluskin. He’s a patient here as well, but we rarely see him inside the sanitarium.”

Waylon watched as Miles looked back at Eddie, and this time his eyes softened. “Spends most of his time around the grounds, or in the chapel.”

“Why?” Waylon watched him stand there like a statue, not moving at all.

“Who knows, he doesn’t talk much,” Miles shrugged, but Waylon got the feeling he wasn’t telling the truth. “C’mon, lemme show you the chickens.”

With that, Miles started driving his wheelchair in the direction of the farmland, and Waylon, with another glance back at the unmoving man, followed.  
  


* * *

  
The chicken coop was placed next to a small farmhouse and fields of vegetables, and the chickens immediately started flocking around Miles’ wheelchair, eagerly clucking away.

“There’s a bigger farm with livestock a little ways down the side there,” Miles said, pointing down a dirt road. “But I like the chickens, myself.”

“They seem to like you as well.”

“It’s not all due to my winning personality, I can assure you,” he said, winking, before sticking his hand into the pockets of his pants. When he withdrew his hand it was filled with bread crumbs and seeds, which he tossed out in front of him. There was a wild ruckus when the chickens all tried to eat as much as possible, and Miles chuckled.

They stayed in a comfortable silence, watching the chickens run around. It didn’t feel too bad, then. Not Mount Massive, not the routines and the symptoms they all had to gloss over. Not even the tuberculosis. When Waylon looked around him, at the towering mountains and luscious forests, he could almost pretend he was at some fancy resort or whatnot.

“We best be getting back soon,” Miles said, interrupting his thoughts yet again, but he didn’t seem too keen on following his own advice. Instead he leaned down and picked up a chicken, before placing it unceremoniously on his lap. The chicken didn’t struggle, but allowed him to stroke his hands over the feathers.

“We’re not allowed to be out there?”

“Oh, you’re encouraged to go out here,” Miles said. “They want you to stay as much as possible out in the fresh air,” Miles said, absentmindedly petting the chicken in his lap. “No matter if it’s Summer or Winter, but we’re closing in on lunch and the quiet hour, and I suspect they won’t be too pleased if we skip out on either.”

“Quiet hour?”

“Actually, it’s more like three hours. You’re expected to read on your bed, no talking allowed.”

Waylon didn’t know what to say to that, so he just watched the chickens walking around the small pen.

“Wanna know something ironic?” Miles said, grinning again, and continued before Waylon had a chance to answer. “I actually wrote a piece for the Denver Post on the fresh-air treatments.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Didn’t know I’d be experiencing it firsthand.”

“That was you? I think I read that!” Waylon grinned. “How previously they thought cool, mountainous air was the only cure for tuberculosis, but now they’ve found that desert and sea air can be just as good?”

“Or just as bad.” The carefully crafted mask Miles had been wearing slipped a little. Then he smiled. “Sometimes I wish I had gone for that invigorating salt sea air, instead.”

“You just want to see women in tight swimsuits.”

Miles barked out a laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Next Tuesday it will be five months exactly,” Miles answered, and his eyes seemed to go a little dull at the thought of it.

“Got anyone waiting back home for you?”

“Eh,” Miles shrugged. “I’m sure she moved on by now. Hollywood starlet and all that.”

Waylon spluttered, but before he could ask for specifics, Miles had already asked him about the wife and children he had mentioned at breakfast.

“Lisa,” Waylon said with a smile. “High school sweethearts. She blessed me with two children, the youngest just two years now.”

“Jeez,” Miles said, patting his pocket like he had been a smoker before contracting tuberculosis. He caught Waylon staring and grinned. “The perfect little family.”

“Yeah, except now I’m here and they’re still back there.” Waylon rubbed his chest, that strange, hollowness coming back at full force.

“You don’t wanna infect a two year old,” Miles said, and opened his mouth as if to say something more, but seemed to think better of it. “Lets head back.”  
  


* * *

  
They weren’t joking about quiet hour.

A silence fell over the whole sanitarium, apart from the small trolleys the nurses rolled on squeaky wheels from room to room, with a collection of books that had been donated from the state.

Contemporary ones too, Waylon noted with some small delight. He had been worried he’d be stuck reading romance novels from the turn of the century.

He’d picked a book on random, but found he enjoyed it greatly. It was a story set far from his own life, and perhaps that is what he enjoyed so much about it. Maybe he should have been a con-man in London, instead of wasting away at some sanitarium in Colorado.

Billy looked incredibly bored, flicking through the pages of a yellowed, dog-eared book. Waylon had forgotten to ask him how long he’d been in here, but he supposed you’d run out of books eventually, if quiet hour really was a daily thing.

Waylon’s mind started drifting, from the poor London neighborhood in his book, to the sanitarium and its inhabitants. So far he definitely felt most at ease with Miles, and he hoped they could continue their easy conversation the next day. He thought again about the man at the chapel. Eddie, Miles had said, without any other details about who this man was. There was something about the image of him, though, that dark silhouette against the whitewashed bricks, his back straight and his head unbowed. Waylon shook his head.

Maybe he’d be more fit for some melodramatic turn-of-the-century tome after all.


End file.
